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THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


AN EDITION DE LUXE 


THE HAPPY 
HYPOCRITE 

By MAX BEERBOHM 

With 24 Illustrations in Color 
By George Sheringham 

Crown Quarto. Cloth, $7.50 net 

Mr. Beerbohm’s “Happy Hypocrite” orig- 
inally appeared in The Yellow Book. It was 
afterwards published in book form and has 
since been successfully produced as a play. 

The colored illustrations are beautiful re- 
productions in facsimile on a specially made 
antique paper on which the text is also printed, 
and the book is one of the most luxurious edi- 
tions of the season. 


The Happy Hypocrite 

A FAIRY TALE FOR TIRED MEN 


BY 

i'/r max BEERBOHM 

Author of 

“ZuLEiKA Dobson,” “More,” etc. 


NEW YORK 

JOHN LANE COMPANY 
MCMXIX 


)\a. 

4 


Copyright, 1896 
RY John Lane 

Copyright, 1906 
John Lane Company 


Worn 

Robert L. Owen 

Nov. 4, 198J 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


^TONE, it is said, of all who revelled with 
^ ^ the Regent, was half so wicked as Lord 
George Hell. I will not trouble my little 
readers with a long recital of his great naugh- 
tiness. But it were well they should know 
that he was greedy, destructive, and disobedi- 
ent. I am afraid there is no doubt that he 
often sat up at Carlton House until long after 
bed-time, playing at games, and that he gen- 
erally ate and drank more than was good for 
him. His fondness for fine clothes was such 
that he used to dress on week-days quite as 
gorgeously as good people dress on Sundays. 
He was thirty-five years old and a great grief 
to his parents. 

And the worst of it was that he set such a 
bad example to others. Never, never did he 
try to conceal his wrong-doing; so that, in time, 
5 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


every one knew how horrid he was. In fact, 
I think he was proud of being horrid. Cap- 
tain Tarleton, in his account of Contemporary 
Bucks, suggested that his Lordship’s great Can- 
dour was a virtue and should incline us to for- 
give some of his abominable faults. But, pain- 
ful as it is to me to dissent from any opinion 
expressed by one who is now dead, I hold that 
Candour is good only when it reveals good ac- 
tions or good sentiments, and that, when it re- 
veals evil, itself is evil, even also. 

Lord George Hell did, at last, atone for all 
his faults, in a way that was never revealed to 
the world during his life-time. The reason 
of his strange and sudden disappearance from 
that social sphere, in which he had so long 
moved and never moved again, I will unfold. 
My little readers will then, I think, acknowl- 
edge that any angry judgment they may have 
passed upon him must be reconsidered and, it 
may be, withdrawn. I will leave his lordship 
in their hands. But my plea for him will not 
be based upon that Candour of his, which some 
of his friends so much admired. There were, 
6 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


yes ! some so weak and so wayward as to think 
It a fine thing to have an historic title and no 
scruples. “Here comes George Hell,” they 
would say, “How wicked my lord is looking!” 
Noblesse oblige, you see, and so an aristocrat 
should be very careful of his good name. Anon- 
ymous naughtiness does little harm. 

It is pleasant to record that many persons 
were Inobnoxious to the magic of his title and 
disapproved of him so strongly that, whenever 
he entered a room where they happened to be, 
they would make straight for the door and 
watch him very severely through the key-hole. 
Every morning when he strolled up Piccadilly 
they crossed over to the other side In a com- 
pact body, leaving him to the companionship 
of his bad companions on that which Is 
still called the “shady” side. Lord George — 
ffxerXios — was quite Indifferent to this demon- 
stration. Indeed, he seemed wholly hardened, 
and when ladles gathered up their skirts as 
they passed him he would lightly appraise their 
ankles. 

I am glad I never saw his lordship. They 
7 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


say he was rather like Caligula, with a dash of 
Sir John Falstaff, and that sometimes on win- 
try mornings in St. James’s Street young chil- 
dren would hush their prattle and cling in dis- 
consolate terror to their nurses’ skirts as they 
saw him come (that vast and fearful gentle- 
man!) with the east wind ruffling the rotund 
surface of his beaver, ruffling the fur about 
his neck and wrists, and striking the purple com- 
plexion of his cheeks to a still deeper purple. 
“King Bogey” they called him in the nurseries. 
In the hours when they too were naughty, their 
nurses would predict his advent down the chim- 
ney or from the linen-press, and then they al- 
ways “behaved.” So that, you see, even the 
unrighteous are a power for good, in the hands 
of nurses. 

It is true that his lordship was a non-smoker 
— a negative virtue, certainly, and due, even 
that, I fear, to the fashion of the day — but 
there the list of his good qualities comes to an 
abrupt conclusion. He loved with an insa- 
tiable love the town and the pleasures of the 
town, whilst the ennobling influences of our 
8 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 

English lakes were quite unknown to him. He 
used to boast that he had not seen a buttercup 
for twenty years, and once he called the coun- 
try “a Fool’s Paradise.” London was the 
only place marked on the map of his mind. 
London gave him all he wished for. Is it not 
extraordinary to think that he had never spent 
a happy day nor a day of any kind in Follard 
Chase, that desirable mansion in Herts, which 
he had won from Sir Follard Follard, by a 
chuck of the dice, at Boodle’s, on his seven- 
teenth birthday? Always cynical and unkind, 
he had refused to give the broken baronet his 
“revenge.” Always unkind and insolent, he 
had offered to instal him in the lodge — an of- 
fer which was, after a little hesitation, accepted. 
“On my soul, the man’s place is a sinecure,” 
Lord George would say; “he never has to open 
the gate for me.” ^ So rust had covered the 
great iron gates of Follard Chase, and moss 
had covered its paths. The deer browsed upon 
its terraces. There were only wild flowers 
anywhere. Deep down among the weeds and 
^ Lord Coleraine’s Correspondence, page 101. 

9 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


water-lilies of the little stone-rimmed pond he 
had looked down upon, lay the marble faun, 
as he had fallen. 

Of all the sins of his lordship’s life surely 
not one was more wanton than his neglect of 
Pollard Chase. Some whispered (nor did he 
ever trouble to deny) that he had won it by 
foul means, by loaded dice. Indeed no card- 
player in St. James’s cheated more persistently 
than he. As he was rich and had no wife and 
family to support, and as his luck was always 
capital, I can offer no excuse for his conduct. 
At Carlton House, in the presence of many 
bishops and cabinet ministers, he once dunned 
the Regent most arrogantly for 5000 guineas 
out of which he had cheated him some months 
before, and went so far as to declare that he 
would not leave the house till he got it; where- 
upon His Royal Highness, with that unfailing 
tact for which he was ever famous, invited him 
to stay there as a guest, which, in fact. Lord 
George did, for several months. After this, 
we can hardly be surprised when we read that 
he “seldom sat down to the fashionable game 
10 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


of Limbo with less than four, and sometimes 
with as many as seven aces up his sleeve.” ^ 
We can only wonder that he was tolerated at 
all. 

At Garble^s, that nightly resort of titled rips 
and roysterers, he usually spent the early part 
of his evenings. Round the illuminated gar- 
den, with La Gambogi, the dancer, on his arm 
and a Bacchic retinue at his heels, he would 
amble, leisurely, clad In Georgian costume, 
which was not then, of course, fancy dress, as 
It is now.^ Now and again, in^ the midst of 
his noisy talk, he would crack a joke of the 
period, or break into a sentimental ballad, 
dance a little or pick a quarrel. When he tired 
of such fooling, he would proceed to his box 
In the tiny al fresco theatre and patronise the 
jugglers, pugilists, play-actors and whatever 

^ Contemporary Bucks, vol. 1, page 73. 

2 It would seem, however, that, on spefcial occasions, his 
lordship indulged in odd costumes. “I have seen him,” 
says Captain Tarleton (vol. 1, p. 69), “attired as a French 
clown, a5 a sailor, or in the crimson hose of a Sicilian 
grandee — peu beau spectacle. He never disguised his face, 
whatever his costume, however.” 

11 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 

eccentric persons happened to be performing 
there. 

The stars were splendid and the moon as 
beautiful as a great camelia one night in May, 
as his lordship laid his arms upon the cushioned 
ledge of his box and watched the antics of the 
Merry Dwarf, a little, curly-headed creature, 
whose dehut it was. Certainly Garble had 
found a novelty. Lord George led the ap- 
plause, and the Dwarf finished his frisking with 
a pretty song about lovers. Nor was this all. 
Feats of archery were to follow. In a mo- 
ment the Dwarf reappeared with a small, gilded 
bow in his hand and a quiverful of arrows 
slung at his shoulder. Hither and thither he 
shot these vibrant arrows, very precisely, sev- 
eral into the bark of the acacias that grew 
about the overt stage, several into the fluted 
columns of the boxes, two or three to the stars. 
The audience was delighted. Bravo! Bravo 
SaggitaroB* murmured Lord George, in the 
language of La Gambogi, who was at his side. 
Finally, the waxen figure of a man was car- 
ried on by an assistant and propped against the 
12 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


trunk of a tree. A scarf was tied across the 
eyes of the Merry Dwarf, who stood in a re- 
mote corner of the stage. Bravo indeed! 
For the shaft had pierced the waxen figure 
through the heart or just where the heart 
would have been, if the figure had been hu- 
man and not waxen. 

Lord George called for port and champagne 
and beckoned the bowing homuncle to his box, 
that he might compliment him on his skill and 
pledge him in a bumper of the grape. 

“On my soul, you have a genius for the bow,” 
his lordship cried with florid condescension. 
“Come and sit by me, but first let me present 
you to my divine companion the Signora Gam- 
bogi — Virgo and Sagittarius, egad! You may 
have met on the Zodiac.” 

“Indeed, I met the Signora many years ago,” 
the Dwarf replied, with a low bow. “But not 
on the Zodiac, and the Signora perhaps for- 
gets me.” 

At this speech the Signora flushed angrily, 
for she was indeed no longer young, and the 
Dwarf had a childish face. She thought he 
13 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


mocked her; her eyes flashed. Lord George’s 
twinkled rather maliciously. 

“Great is the experience of youth,” he 
laughed. “Pray, are you stricken with more 
than twenty summers?” “With more than I 
can count,” said the Dwarf. “To the health 
of your lordship!” and he drained his long 
glass of wine. Lord George replenished it, 
and asked by what means or miracle he had 
acquired his mastery of the bow. 

“By long practice,” the little thing rejoined; 
“long practice on human creatures.” And he 
nodded his curls mysteriously. 

“On my heart, you are a dangerous box- 
mate.” 

“Your lordship were certainly a good tar- 
get. 

Little liking this joke at his bulk, which 
really rivalled the Regent’s, Lord George 
turned brusquely in his chair and fixed his eyes 
upon the stage. This time it was the Gam- 
bogi who laughed. 

A new operette, The Fair Captive of Samar- 
cand, was being enacted, and the frequenters of 
14 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


Garble’s were all curious to behold the new 
debutante, Jenny Mere, who was said to be 
both pretty and talented. These predictions 
were surely fulfilled, when the captive peeped 
from the window of her wooden turret. She 
looked so pale under her blue turban. Her 
eyes were dark with fear; her parted lips did 
not seem capable of speech. “Is it that she 
is frightened of us?” the audience wondered. 
“Or of the flashing scimitar of Aphoschaz, the 
cruel father who holds her captive?” So they 
gave her loud applause, and when at length she 
jumped down, to be caught in the arms of her 
gallant lover, Nissarah, and, throwing aside 
her Eastern draperies, did a simple dance, in 
the convention of Columbine, their delight was 
quite unbounded. She was very young and did 
not dance very well, it is true, but they for- 
gave her that. And when she turned in the 
dance and saw her father with his scimitar, 
their hearts beat swiftly for her. Nor were 
all eyes tearless when she pleaded with him for 
her life. 

Strangely absorbed, quite callous of his two 
15 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


companions, Lord George gazed over the foot- 
lights. He seemed as one who was in a trance. 
Of a sudden, something shot sharp into his 
heart. In pain he sprang to his feet and, as 
he turned, he seemed to see a winged and 
laughing child, in whose hand was a bow, fly 
swiftly away into the darkness. At his side 
was the Dwarf’s chair. It was empty. Only 
La Gambogi was with him, and her dark face 
was like the face of a fury. 

Presently he sank back into his chair, holding 
one hand to his heart, that still throbbed from 
the strange transfixion. He breathed very pain- 
fully and seemed scarce conscious of his sur- 
roundings. But La Gambogi knew he would 
pay no more homage to her now, for that the 
love of Jenny Mere had come into his heart. 

When the operette was over, his love-sick 
lordship snatched up his cloak and went away 
without one word to the lady at his side. 
Rudely he brushed aside Count Karoloff and 
Mr. FitzClarence, with whom he had arranged 
to play hazard. Of his comrades, his syn- 


16 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


icism, his reckless scorn — of all the material of 
his existence — he was oblivious now. He had 
no time for penitence or diffident delay. He 
only knew that he must kneel at the feet of 
Jenny Mere and ask her to be his wife. 

“Miss Mere,” said Garble, “is in her room, 
resuming her ordinary attire. If your lordship 
deign to await the conclusion of her humble 
toilet, it shall be my privilege to present her to 
your lordship. Even now, indeed, I hear her 
footfall on the stair.” 

Lord George uncovered his head and with 
one hand nervously smoothed his rebellious wig. 

“Miss Mere, come hither,” said Garble. 
“This is my Lord George Hell, that you have 
pleased whom by your poor efforts this night 
will ever be the prime gratification of your 
passage through the roseate realms of art.” 

Little Miss Mere who had never seen a lord, 
except in fancy or in dreams, curtseyed shyly 
and hung her head. With a loud crash Lord 
George fell on his knees. The manager was 
greatly surprised, the girl greatly embarrassed. 


17 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


Yet neither of them laughed, for sincerity dig- 
nified his posture and sent eloquence from its 
lips. 

“Miss Mere,” he cried, “give ear, I pray 
you, to my poor words, nor spurn me in mis- 
prision from the pedestal of your beauty, 
genius, and virtue. All too conscious, alas ! of 
my presumption in the same, I yet abase my- 
self before you as a suitor for your adorable 
hand. I grope under the shadow of your raven 
locks. I am dazzled in the light of those 
translucent orbs, your eyes. In the intolerable 
whirlwind of your fame I faint and am afraid.” 

“Sir ” the girl began, simply. 

“Say ‘My Lord,’ ” said Garble, solemnly. 

“My lord, I thank you for your words. 
They are beautiful. But indeed, indeed, I can 
never be your bride.” 

Lord George hid his face in his hands. 

“Child,” said Mr. Garble, “let not the sun 
rise e’er you have retracted those wicked 
words.” 

“My wealth, my rank, my irremeable love 
for you, I throw them at your feet,” Lord 
IS 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


George cried, piteously. “I would wait an 
hour, a week, a lustre, even a decade, did you 
but bid me hope!” 

“I can never be your wife,” she said, slowly. 
“I can never be the wife of any man whose 
face is not saintly. Your face, my lord, mir- 
rors, it may be, true love for me, but it is even 
as a mirror long tarnished by the reflection of 
this world’s vanity. It is even as a tarnished 
mirror. Do not kneel to me, for I am poor 
and humble. I was not made for such im- 
petuous wooing. Kneel, if you please, to some 
greater, gayer lady. As for my love, it is my 
own, nor can it ever be torn from me, but 
given, as true love needs be given, freely. Ah, 
rise from your knees. That man, whose face 
is wonderful as the faces of the saints, to him 
I will give my true love.” 

Miss Mere, though visibly affected, had 
spoken this speech with a gesture and elocu- 
tion so superb, that Mr. Garble could not help 
applauding, deeply though he regretted her at- 
titude towards his honoured patron. As for 
Lord George, he was immobile, a stricken oak. 

19 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


With a sweet look of pity, Miss Mere went her 
way, and Mr. Garble, with some solicitude, 
helped his lordship to rise from his knees. Out 
into the night, without a word, his lordship 
went. Above him the stars were still splendid. 
They seemed to mock the festoons of little 
lamps, dim now and guttering in the garden of 
Garble’s. What should he do? No thoughts 
came.; only his heart burnt hotly. He stood 
on the brim of Garble’s lake, shallow and arti- 
ficial as his past life had been. Two swans 
slept on its surface. The moon shone strangely 
upon their white, twisted necks. Should he 
drown himself? There was no one in the gar- 
den to prevent him, and in the morning they ^ 
would find him floating there, one of the noblest 
of love’s victims. The garden would be closed 
in the evening. There would be no perfor- 
mance in the little theatre. It might be that 
Jenny Mere would mourn him. “Life is a 
prison, without bars,” he murmured, as he 
walked away. 

All night long he strode, knowing not 
whither, through the mysterious streets and 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


squares of London. The watchmen, to whom 
his figure was most familiar, gripped their 
staves at his approach, for they had old rea- 
son to fear his wild and riotous habits. He 
did not heed them. Through that dim conflict 
between darkness and day, which is ever waged 
silently over our sleep. Lord George strode on 
in the deep absorption of his love and of his 
despair. At dawn he found himself on the 
outskirts of a little wood in Kensington. A 
rabbit rushed past him through the dew. Birds 
were fluttering in the branches. The leaves 
were tremulous with the presage of day, and 
the air was full of the sweet scent of hyacinths. 

How cool the country was! It seemed to 
cure the feverish maladies of his soul and con- 
secrate his love. In the fair light of the dawn 
he began to shape the means of winning Jenny 
Mere, that he had conceived in the desperate 
hours of the night. Soon an old woodman 
passed by, and, with rough courtesy, showed 
him the path that would lead him quickest to 
the town. He was loth to leave the wood. 
With Jenny, he thought, he would live always 
21 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


in the country. And he picked a posy of wild 
flowers for her. 

His rentree into the still silent town strength- 
ened his Arcadian resolves. He, who had seen 
the town so often in its hours of sleep, had 
never noticed how sinister its whole aspect was. 
In its narrow streets the white houses rose on 
either side of him like cliffs of chalk. He hur- 
ried swiftly along the unswept pavement. 
How had he loved this city of evil secrets? 

At last he came to St. James’s Square, to the 
hateful door of his own house. Shadows lay 
like memories in every corner of the dim hall. 
Through the window of his room a sunbeam 
slanted across his smooth, white bed, and fell 
ghastly on the ashen grate. 


It was a bright morning in Old Bond Street, 
and fat little Mr. Aeneas, the fashionable 
mask-maker, was sunning himself at the door of 
his shop. His window was lined as usual with 
all kinds of masks — beautiful masks with pink 
cheeks, and absurd masks with protuberant 
22 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


chins; curious TTpoauva copied from old tragic 
models; masks of paper for children, of fine 
silk for ladies, and of leather for working men; 
bearded or beardless, gilded or waxen (most 
of them, indeed were waxen), big or little 
masks. And in the middle of this vain galaxy 
hung the presentment of a Cyclop’s face, carved 
cunningly of gold, with a great sapphire in its 
brow. 

The sun gleamed brightly on the window and 
on the bald head and varnished shoes of fat 
little Mr. Aeneas. It was too early for any 
customers to come and Mr. Aeneas seemed to 
be greatly enjoying his leisure in the fresh air. 
He smiled complacently as he stood there, and 
well he might, for he was a great artist, and 
was patronized by several crowned heads and 
not a few of the nobility. Only the evening 
before, Mr. Brummell had come into his shop 
and ordered a light summer mask, wishing to 
evade for a time the jealous vigilance of Lady 
Otterton. It pleased Mr. Aeneas to think that 
his art made him the recipient of so many high 
secrets. He smiled as he thought of the titled 
23 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 

spendthrifts, who, at this moment, perdus be- 
hind his masterpieces, passed unscathed among 
their creditors. He was the secular confessor 
of his day, always able to give absolution. An 
unique position ! 

The street was as quiet as a village street. 
At an open window over the way, a handsome 
lady, wrapped in a muslin peignoir , sat sipping 
her cup of chocolate. It was La Signora Gam- 
bogi, and Mr. Aeneas made her many elaborate 
bows. This morning, however, her thoughts 
seemed far away, and she did not notice the 
little man’s polite efforts. Nettled at her neg- 
ligence, Mr. Aeneas was on the point of retir- 
ing into his shop, when he saw Lord George 
Hell hastening up the street, with a posy of 
wild flowers in his hand. 

“His lordship is up betimes !” he said to him- 
self. “An early visit to La Signora, I sup- 
pose.” 

Not so, however. His lordship came 
straight towards the mask-shop. Once he 
glanced up at the Signora’s window and looked 


24 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


deeply annoyed when he saw her sitting there. 
He came quickly into the shop. 

“I want the mask of a saint,” he said. 

“Mask of a saint, my lord? Certainly!” 
said Mr. Aeneas, briskly. “With or without 
halo? His Grace the Bishop of St. Aldreds 
always wears his with a halo. Your lordship 
does not wish for a halo? Certainly! If 
your lordship will allow me to take the measure- 
ment ” 

“I must have the mask to-day,” Lord George 
said. “Have you none ready-made?” 

“Ah, I see. Required for immediate wear,” 
murmured Mr. Aeneas, dubiously. “You see, 
your lordship takes a rather large size.” And 
he looked at the floor. 

“Julius!” he cried suddenly to his assistant, 
who was putting finishing touches to a mask of 
Barbarossa which the young king of Ziirrem- 
burg was to wear at his coronation the fol- 
lowing week. “Julius! Do you remember 
the saint’s mask we made for Mr. Ripsby, a 
couple of years ago?” 


25 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


“Yes, sir,” said the boy. “It’s stored up- 
stairs.” 

“I thought so,” replied Mr. Aeneas. “Mr. 
Ripsby only had it on hire. Step upstairs, 
Julius, and bring it down. I fancy it is just 
what your lordship would wish. Spiritual, yet 
handsome.” 

“Is it a mask that is even as a mirror of true 
love?” Lord George asked gravely. 

“It was made precisely as such,” the mask- 
maker answered. “In fact it was made for 
Mr. Ripsby to wear at his silver wedding, and 
was very highly praised by the relatives of 
Mrs. Ripsby. Will your lordship step into my 
little room?” 

So Mr. Aeneas led the way to his parlour be- 
hind the shop. He was elated by the distin- 
guished acquisition to his clientele, for hitherto 
Lord George had 'never patronised his business. 
He bustled round his parlour and insisted that 
his lordship should take a chair and a pinch 
from his snuff-box, while the saint’s mask was 
being found. 

Lord George’s eye travelled along the rows 
26 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


of framed letters from great personages, which 
lined the walls. He did not see them though, 
for he was calculating the chances that La Gam- 
bogi had not observed him, as he entered the 
mask-shop. He had come down so early that 
he thought she would be still abed. That sinis- 
ter old proverb. La jalouse se leve de bonne 
heiire, rose in his memory. His eye fell uncon- 
sciously on a large, round mask made of dull 
silver, with the features of a human face traced 
over its surface in faint filigree. 

“Your lordship wonders what mask that is!” 
chirped Mr. Aeneas, tapping the thing with one 
of his little finger nails. 

“What is that mask?’’ Lord George mur- 
mured, absently. 

“I ought not to divulge, my lord,” said the 
mask-maker. “But I know your lordship would 
respect a professional secret, a secret of which 
I am pardonably proud. This,” he said, “is 
a mask for the sun-god, Apollo, whom heaven 
bless!” 

“You astound me,” said Lord George. 

“Of no less a person, I do assure you. When 
27 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 

Jupiter, his father, made him lord of the day, 
Apollo craved that he might sometimes see the 
doings of mankind in the hours of night time. 
Jupiter granted so reasonable a request, and 
when next Apollo had passed over the sky and 
hidden in the sea, and darkness had fallen on 
all the world, he raised his head above the wa- 
ters that he might watch the doings of mankind 
in the hours of night time. But,” Mr. Aeneas 
added, with a smile, “his bright countenance 
made light all the darkness. Men rose from 
their couches or from their revels, wondering 
that day was so soon come, and went to their 
work. And Apollo sank weeping into the sea. 
‘Surely,’ he cried, ‘it is a bitter thing that I 
alone, of all the gods, may not watch the world 
in the hours of night time. For in those hours, 
as I am told, men are even as gods are. They 
spill the wine and are wreathed with roses. 
Their daughters dance in the light of torches. 
They laugh to the sound of flutes. On their 
long couches they lie down at last and sleep 
comes to kiss their eyelids. None of these 
things may I see. Wherefore the brightness of 
28 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 

my beauty is even as a curse to me and I would 
put it from me.’ And as he wept, Vulcan said 
to him, ‘I am not the least cunning of the gods, 
nor the least pitiful. Do not weep, for I will 
give you that which shall end your sorrow. Nor 
need you put from you the brightness of your 
beauty.’ And Vulcan made a mask of dull sil- 
ver and fastened it across his brother’s face. 
And that night, thus masked, the sun-god rose 
from the sea and watched the doings of man- 
kind in the night time. Nor any longer were 
men abashed by his bright beauty, for it was 
hidden by the mask of silver. Those whom he 
had so often seen haggard over their daily 
tasks, he saw feasting now and wreathed with 
red roses. He heard them laugh to the sound 
of flutes, as their daughters danced in the red 
light of torches. And when at length they lay 
down upon their soft couches and sleep kissed 
their eye-lids, he sank back into the sea and hid 
his mask under a little rock in the bed of the 
sea. Nor have men ever known that Apollo 
watches them often in the night time, but fan- 
cied it to be some pale goddess.” 

29 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


“I myself have always thought it was 
Diana,” said Lord George Hell. 

“An error, my lord!” said Mr. Aeneas, with 
a smile. *^Ecce signumP^ And he tapped the 
mask of dull silver. 

“Strange!” said his lordship. “And pray 
how comes it that Apollo has ordered of you 
this new mask?” 

“He has always worn twelve new masks 
every year, inasmuch as no mask can endure for 
many nights the near brightness of his face, be- 
fore which even a mask of the best and purest 
silver soon tarnishes, and wears away. Cen- 
turies ago, Vulcan tired of making so very many 
masks. And so Apollo sent Mercury down to 
Athens, to the shop of Phoron, a Phoenician 
mask-maker of great skill. Phoron made 
Apollo’s masks for many years, and every 
month Mercury came to his shop for a new one. 
When Phoron died, another artist was chosen, 
and, when he died, another, and so on through 
all the ages of the world. Conceive, my lord, 
my pride and pleasure when Mercury flew into 
my shop, one night last year, and made me 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


Apollo’s warrant-holder. It is the highest 
privilege that any mask-maker can desire. And 
when I die,” said Mr. Aeneas, with some emo- 
tion, “Mercury will confer my post upon an- 
other.” 

“And do they pay you for your labour?” 
Lord George asked. 

Mr. Aeneas drew himself up to his full 
height, such as it was. “In Olympus, my lord,” 
he said, “they have no currency. For any 
mask-maker, so high a privilege is its own re- 
ward. Yet the sun-god is generous. He 
shines more brightly into my shop than into any 
other. Nor does he suffer his rays to melt any 
waxen mask made by me, until its wearer doff 
it and it be done with.” At this moment Julius 
came in with the Ripsby mask. “I must ask 
your lordship’s pardon, for having kept you so 
long,” pleaded Mr. Aeneas. “But I have a 
large store of old masks and they are imper- 
fectly catalogued.” 

It certainly was a beautiful mask, with its 
smooth, pink cheeks and devotional brows. It 
was made of the finest wax. Lord George took 
3 ! 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


it gingerly in his hands and tried it on his face. 
It fitted a merveille, 

“Is the expression exactly as your lordship 
would wish?” asked Mr. Aeneas. 

Lord George laid it on the table and studied 
it intently. “I wish it were more as a perfect 
mirror of true love,” he said at length. “It 
is too calm, too contemplative.” 

“Easily remedied!” said Mr. Aeneas. Se- 
lecting a fine pencil, he deftly drew the eye- 
brows closer to each other. With a brush 
steeped in some scarlet pigment, he put a fuller 
curve upon the lips. And, behold! it was the 
mask of a saint who loves dearly. Lord 
George’s heart throbbed with pleasure. 

“And for how long does your lordship wish 
to wear it?” asked Mr. Aeneas. 

“I must wear it until I die,” replied Lord 
George. 

“Kindly be seated then, I pray,” rejoined the 
little man. “For I must apply the mask with 
great care. Julius, you will assist me!” 

So, while Julius heated the inner side of the 


32 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


waxen mask over a little lamp, Mr. Aeneas 
stood over Lord George gently smearing his 
features with some sweet-scented pomade. 
Then he took the mask and powdered its in- 
ner side, quite soft and warm now, with a 
fluffy puff. “Keep quite still, for one instant,” 
he said, and clapped the mask firmly on his 
lordship’s upturned face. So soon as he was 
sure of its perfect adhesion, he took from his 
assistant’s hand a silver file and a little wooden 
spatula, with which he proceeded to pare down 
the edge of the mask, where it joined the neck 
and ears. At length, all traces of the “join” 
were obliterated. It remained only to arrange 
the curls of the lordly wig over the waxen brow. 

The disguise was done. When Lord George 
looked through the eyelets of his mask into 
the mirror that was placed in his hand, he saw 
a face that was saintly, itself a mirror of true 
love. How wonderful it was! He felt his 
past was a dream. He felt he was a new man 
indeed. His voice went strangely through the 
mask’s parted lips, as he thanked Mr. Aeneas. 


33 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


“Proud to have served your lordship,” said 
that little worthy, pocketing his fee of fifty 
guineas, while he bowed his customer out. 

When he reached the street. Lord George 
nearly uttered a curse through those sainted lips 
of his. For there, right in his way, stood La 
Gambogi, with a small, pink parasol. She laid 
her hand upon his sleeve and called him. softly 
by his name. He passed her by without a 
word. Again she confronted him. 

“I cannot let go so handsome a lover,” she 
laughed, “even though he spurn me! Do not 
spurn me, George. Give me* your posy of wild 
flowers. Why, you never looked so lovingly 
at me in all your life 1” 

“Madam,” said Lord George, sternly, “I 
have not the honour to know you.” And he 
passed on. 

The lady gazed after her lost lover with the 
blackest hatred in her eyes. Presently she 
beckoned across the road to a certain spy. 

And the spy followed him. 

Lord George, greatly agitated, had turned 
into Piccadilly. It was horrible to have met 
34 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


this garish embodiment of his past on the very 
threshold of his fair future. The mask- 
maker’s elevating talk about the gods, followed 
by the initiative ceremony of his saintly mask, 
had driven all discordant memories from his 
love-thoughts of Jenny Mere. And then to be 
met by La Gambogi I It might be that, after 
his stern words, she would not seek to cross 
his path again. Surely she would not seek to 
mar his sacred love. Yet, he knew her dark, 
Italian nature, her passion of revenge. What 
was the line in Virgil? Spretaeque — some- 
thing. Who knew but that somehow, sooner 
or later, she might come between him and his 
love? 

He was about to pass Lord Barrymore’s 
mansion. Count Karoloff and Mr. FitzClar- 
ence were lounging in one of the lower win- 
dows. Would they know him under his mask? 
Thank God ! they did not. They merely 
laughed as he went by, and Mr. FitzClarence 
cried in a mocking voice, “Sing us a hymn, Mr. 
What-ever-your-saint’s-name-is !” The mask, 
then, at least, was perfect. Jenny Mere would 
35 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


not know him. He need fear no one but La 
Gambogi. But would not she betray his se- 
cret? He sighed. 

That night he was going to visit Garble’s 
and to declare his love to the little actress. He 
never doubted that she would love him for 
his saintly face. Had she not said, “That man 
whose face is wonderful as are the faces of 
the saints, to him I will give my true love’’? 
She could not say now that his face was as a 
tarnished mirror of love. She would smile 
on him. She would be his bride. But would 
La Gambogi be at Garble’s? 

The operette would not be over before ten 
that night. The clock in Hyde Park Gate told 
him it was not yet ten — ten of the morning. 
Twelve whole hours to wait, before he could 
fall at Jenny’s feet! “I cannot spend that time 
in this place of memories,’’ he thought. So he 
hailed a yellow cabriolet and bade the jarvey 
drive him out to the village of Kensington. 

When they came to the little wood where 
he had been but a few hours ago. Lord George 
dismissed the jarvey. The sun, that had risen 
36 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


as he stood there thinking of Jenny, shone down 
on his altered face, but, though it shone very 
fiercely, it did not melt his waxen features. 
The old woodman, who had shown him his 
way, passed by under a load of faggots and did 
not know him. He wandered among the trees. 
It was a lovely wood. 

Presently he came to the bank of that tiny 
stream, the Ken, which still flowed there in 
those days. On the moss of its bank he lay 
down and let its water ripple over his hand. 
Some bright pebble glistened under the sur- 
face, and, as he peered down at it, he saw in 
the stream the reflection of his mask. A great 
shame filled him that he should so cheat the 
girl he loved. Behind that fair mask there 
would still be the evil face that had’ repelled 
her. Could he be so base as to decoy her into 
love of that most ingenious deception? He 
was filled with a great pity for her, with a 
hatred of himself. And yet, he argued, was 
the mask indeed a mean trick? Surely it was 
a secret symbol of his true repentance and of 
his true love. His face was evil, because his 
37 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


life had been evil. He had seen a gracious 
girl, and of a sudden his very soul had changed. 
His face alone was the same as it had been. 
It was not just that his face should be evil 
still. 

There was the faint sound of some one sigh- 
ing. Lord George looked up, and there, on 
the further bank, stood Jenny Mere, watch- 
ing him. As their eyes met, she blushed and 
hung her head. She looked like nothing but 
a tall child, as she stood there, with her 
straight, limp frock of lilac cotton and her sun- 
burnt straw bonnet. He dared not speak; he 
could only gaze at her. Suddenly there 
perched astride the bough of a tree, at her side, 
that winged and laughing child, in whose hand 
was a bow. Before Lord George could warn 
her, an arrow had flashed down and vanished 
in her heart, and Cupid had flown away. 

No cry of pain did she utter, but stretched 
out her arms to her lover, with a glad smile. 
He leapt quite lightly over the little stream and 
knelt at her feet. It seemed more fitting that 


38 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


he should kneel before the gracious thing he 
was unworthy of. But she, knowing only that 
his face was as the face of a great saint, bent 
over him and touched him with her hand. 

“Surely,” she said, “you are that good man 
for whom I have waited. Therefore do not 
kneel to me, but rise and suffer me to kiss your 
hand. For my love of you is lowly, and my 
heart is all yours.” 

But he answered, looking up into her fond 
eyes, “Nay, you are a queen, and I must needs 
kneel in your presence.” 

And she shook her head wistfully, and she 
knelt down, also, in her tremulous ecstasy, be- 
fore him. And as they knelt, the one to the 
other, the tears came into her eyes, and he 
kissed her. Though the lips that he pressed 
to her lips were only waxen, he thrilled with 
happiness, in that mimic kiss. He held her 
close to him in his arms, and they were silent 
in the sacredness of their love. 

From his breast he took the posy of wild 
flowers that he had gathered. 


39 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


“They are for you,” he whispered, “I gath- 
ered them for you, hours ago. In this wood. 
See! They are not withered.” 

But she was perplexed by his words and said 
to him, blushing, “How was it for me that you 
gathered them, though you had never seen 
me?” 

“I gathered them for you,” he answered, 
“knowing I should soon see you. How was it 
that you, who had never seen me, yet waited 
for me?” 

“I waited, knowing I should see you at last.” 
And she kissed the posy and put it at her 
breast. 

And they rose from their knees and went 
Into the wood, walking hand In hand. As they 
went, he asked the names of the flowers that, 
grew under their feet. “These are primroses,” 
she would say. “Did you not know? And 
these are ladles’ feet, and these forget-me-nots. 
And that white flower, climbing up the trunks 
of the trees and trailing down so prettily from 
the branches, is called Astyanax. These little 


40 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


yellow things are buttercups. Did you not 
know?” And she laughed. 

“I know the names of none of the flowers,” 
he said. 

She looked up into his face and said timidly, 
“Is it worldly and wrong of me to have loved 
the flowers? Ought I to have thought more 
of those higher things that are unseen?” 

His heart smote him. He could not answer 
her simplicity. 

“Surely the flowers are good, and did not 
you gather this posy for me?” she pleaded. 
“But if you do not love them, I must not. And 
I will try to forget their names. For I must 
try to be like you in all things.” 

“Love the flowers always,” he said. “And 
teach me to love them.” 

So she told him all about the flowers, how 
some grew very slowly and others bloomed in 
a night; how clever the convolvulus was at 
climbing, and how shy violets were, and why 
honeycups had folded petals. She told him of 
the birds, too, that sang in the wood, how she 


41 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


knew them all by their voices. “That is a 
chaffinch singing. Listen!” she said. And 
she tried to imitate its note, that her lover 
might remember. All the birds, according to 
her, were good, except the cuckoo, and when- 
ever she heard him sing she would stop her 
ears, lest she should forgive him for robbing 
the nests. “Every day,” she said, “I have 
come to the wood, because I was lonely, and 
it seemed to pity me. But now I have you. 
And it is glad.” 

She clung closer to his arm, and he kissed 
her. She pushed back her straw bonnet, so 
that it dangled from her neck by its ribands, 
and laid her little head against his shoulder. 
For a while he forgot his treachery to her, 
thinking only of his love and her love. Sud- 
denly she said to him, “Will you try not to 
be angry with me, if I tell you something? It 
is something that will seem dreadful to you.” 

^'PauvrettCy^ he answered, “you cannot have 
anything very dreadful to tell.” 

“I am very poor,” she said, “and every night 
I dance in a theatre. It is the only thing I 
42 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


can do to earn my bread. Do you despise me 
because I dance?” She looked up shyly at him 
and saw that his face was full of love for her 
and not angry. 

“Do you like dancing?” he asked. 

“I hate it,” she answered, quickly. “I hate 
it indeed. Yet — to-night, alas! I must dance 
again in the theatre.” 

“You need never dance again,” said her 
lover. “I am rich and I will pay them to re- 
lease you. You shall dance only for me. 
Sweetheart, it cannot be much more than noon. 
Let us go into* the town, while there is time, 
and you shall be made my bride, and I your 
bridegroom, this very day. Why should you 
and I be lonely?” 

“I do not know,” she said. 

So they walked back through the wood, tak- 
ing a narrow path which Jenny said would lead 
them quickest to the village. And, as they 
went, they came to a tiny cottage, with a gar- 
den that was full of flowers. The old wood- 
man was leaning over its paling, and he nodded 
to them as they passed. 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


“I often used to envy the woodman,” said 
Jenny, “living in that dear little cottage.” 

“Let us live there, then,” said Lord George. 
And he went back and asked the old man if 
he were not unhappy, living there alone. 

“ ’Tis a poor life here for me,” the old man 
answered. “No folk come to the wood, ex- 
cept little children, now and again, to play, or 
lovers like you. But they seldom notice me: 
And in winter I am alone with Jack Frost. 
Old men love merrier company than that. Oh ! 
I shall die in the snow with my faggots on my 
back. A poor life here!” 

“I will give you gold for your cottage and 
whatever is in it, and then you can go and live 
happily in the town,” Lord George said. And 
he took from his coat a note for two hundred 
guineas, and held it across the palings. 

“Lovers are poor, foolish derry-docks,” the 
old man muttered. “But I thank you kindly, 
sir. This little sum will keep me cosy, as long 
as I last. Come into the cottage as soon as 
can be. It’s a lonely place and does my heart 
good to depart from it.” 

44 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


“We are going to be married this afternoon, 
in the town,” said Lord George. “We will 
come straight back to our home.” 

“May you be happy!” replied the woodman. 
“You’ll find me gone when you come.” 

And the lovers thanked him and went their 
way. 

“Are you very rich?” Jenny asked. “Ought 
you to have bought the cottage for that great 
price ?”^ 

“Would you love me as much if I were quite 
poor, little Jenny?” he asked her after a pause. 

“I did not know you were rich when I saw 
you across the stream,” she said. 

And in his heart Lord George made a good 
resolve. He would put away from him all his 
worldly possessions. All the money that he 
had won at the clubs, fairly or foully, all that 
Iildeous accretion of gold guineas, he would dis- 
tribute among the comrades he had Impover- 
ished. As he walked, with the sweet and trust- 
ful girl at his side, the vague record of his 
infamy assailed him, and a look of pain shot 
behind his smooth mask. He would atone. 

45 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


He would shun no sacrifice that might cleanse 
his soul. All his fortune he would put from 
him. Follard Chase he would give back to Sir 
Follard. He would sell his house in St. 
James’s Square. He would keep some little 
part of his patrimony, enough for him in the 
wood; with Jenny, but no more. 

“I shall be quite poor, Jenny,” he said. 

And they talked of the things that lovers 
love to talk of, how happy they would be to- 
gether and how economical. As they were 
passing Herbert’s pastry shop, which as my lit- 
tle readers know, still stands in Kensington, 
Jenny looked up rather wistfully into her 
lover’s ascetic face. 

“Should you think me greedy,” she asked 
him, “if I wanted a bun? They have beauti- 
ful buns here !” 

Buns ! The simple word started latent mem- 
ories of his childhood. Jenny was only a child, 
after all. Buns! He had forgotten what they 
were like. And as they looked at the piles of 
variegated cakes in the window, he said to her, 


46 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


“Which are buns, Jenny? I should like to 
have one, too.” 

“I am almost afraid of you,” she said. 
“You must despise me so. Are you so good 
that you deny yourself all the vanity and pleas- 
ure that most people love? It is wonderful 
not to know what buns are ! The round, 
brown, shiny cakes, with little raisins in them, 
are buns.” 

So he bought two beautiful buns, and they 
sat together in the shop, eating them. Jenny 
hit hers rather diffidently, but was reassured 
when he said that they must have buns very 
often in the cottage. Yes! he, the famous 
toper and gourmet of St. James’s, relished this 
homely fare, as it passed through the insensible 
lips of his mask to his palate. He seemed to 
rise, from the consumption of his bun, a bet- 
ter man. 

But there was no time to lose now. It was 
already past two o’clock. So he got a chaise 
from the inn opposite the pastry-shop, and they 
were swiftly driven to Doctors’ Commons. 


47 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


There he purchased a special license. When 
the clerk asked him to write his name upon it, 
he hesitated. What name should he assume? 
Under a mask he had wooed this girl, under 
an unreal name he must make her his bride. 
He loathed himself for a trickster. He had 
vilely stolen from her the love she would not 
give him. Even now, should he not confess 
himself the man whose face had frightened 
her, and go his way? And yet, surely, it was 
not just that he, whose soul was transfigured, 
should bear his old name. Surely George Hell 
was dead, and his name had died with him. So 
he dipped a pen in the ink and wrote “George 
Heaven,” for want of a better name. And 
Jenny wrote “Jenny Mere” beneath it. 

An hour later they were married according 
to the simple rites of a dear little registry of- 
fice in Covent Garden. 

And in the cool evening they went home. 


In the cottage that had been the woodman’s 
they had a wonderful honeymoon. No king 
48 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 

and queen in any palace of gold were happier 
than they. For them their tiny cottage was a 
palace, and the flowers that filled the garden 
were their couriers. Long and careless and 
full of kisses were the days of their reign. 

Sometimes, indeed, strange dreams troubled 
Lord George’s sleep. Once he dreamt that he 
stood knocking and knocking at the great door 
of a castle. It was a bitter night. The frost 
enveloped him. No one came. Presently he 
heard a footstep in the hall beyond, and a pair 
of frightened eyes peered at him through the 
grill. Jenny was scanning his face. She 
would not open to him. With tears and wild 
words he beseeched her, but she would not open 
to him. Then, very stealthily, he crept round 
the castle and found a small casement in the 
wall. It was open. He climbed swiftly, 
quietly through it. In the darkness of the 
room some one ran to him and kissed him 
gladly. It was Jenny. With a cry of joy and 
shame he awoke. By his side lay Jenny, sleep- 
ing like a little child. 

After all, what was a dream to him? It 
49 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


could not mar the reality of his daily happi- 
ness. He cherished his true penitence for the 
evil he had done in the past. The past I That 
was indeed the only unreal thing that lingered 
in his life. Every day its substance dwindled, 
grew fainter yet, as he lived his rustic honey- 
moon. Had he not utterly put it from him? 
Had he not, a few hours after his marriage, 
written to his lawyer, declaring solemnly that 
he. Lord George Hell, had forsworn the world, 
that he was where no man would find him, 
that he desired all his worldly goods to be 
distributed, thus and thus, among these and 
those of his companions? By this testament 
he had verily atoned for the wrong he had 
done, had made himself dead indeed to the 
world. 

No address had he written upon this docu- 
ment. Though its injunctions were final and 
binding, it could betray no clue of his hiding- 
place. For the rest, no one would care to 
seek him out. He, who had done no good to 
human creature, would pass unmourned out of 
memory. The clubs, doubtless, would laugh 
50 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


and puzzle over his strange recantations, en- 
vious of whomever he enriched. They would 
say ’twas a good riddance of a rogue and soon 
forget him.^ But she, whose prime patron he 
had been, who had loved him in her vile fash- 
ion, La Gambogi, would she forget him easily, 
like the rest? As the sweet days went by, her 
spectre, also, grew fainter and less formidable. 
She knew his mask indeed, but how should she 
find him in the cottage near Kensington? 
Devia dulcedo latebrarum! He was safe hid- 
den with his bride. As for the Italian, she 

^ I would refer my little readers once more to the pages 
of Contemporary Bucks, where Captain Tarleton specu- 
lates upon the sudden disappearance of Lord George Hell 
and describes its effect on the town. “Not even the 
shrewdest,” says he, “even gave a guess that would 
throw a ray of revealing light on the disparition of this 
profligate man. It was supposed that he carried off with 
him a little dancer from Garble’s, at which haunt of 
pleasantry he was certainly on the night he vanished, and 
whither the young lady never returned again. Garble 
declared he had been compensated for her perfidy, but 
that he was sure she had not succumbed to his lordship, 
having in fact rejected him soundly. Did his lordship, 
say the cronies, take his life — and hers? 11 n'y a pas 
d’epreuve. 


51 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


might search and search — or had forgotten 
him, in the arms of another lover. 

Yes! Few’ and faint became the blemishes 
of his honeymoon. At first, he had felt that his 
waxen mask, though it had been the means of 
his happiness, was rather a barrier ’twixt hint 
and his bride. Though it was sweet to kiss her 
through it, to look at her through it with loving 
eyes, yet there were times when it incommoded 
him with its mockery. Could he but put it from 
him! yet, that, of course, could not be. He 
must wear it all his life. And so, as days went 
by he grew reconciled to his mask. No longer 
did he feel it jarring on his face. It seemed 
to become an integral part of him, and, for all 
its rigid material, it did forsooth express the 
one emotion that filled him, true love. The 

“The most astonishing matter is that the runaway should 
have written out a complete will, restoring all money he 
had won at cards, etc., etc. This certainly corroborates 
the opinion that he was seized with a sudden repentance 
and fled over the seas to a foreign monastery, where he 
died at last in f*eligious silence. That’s as it may, but 
many a spendthrift found his pocket clinking with guineas, 
a not unpleasant sound, I declare. The Regent himself 
was benefited by the odd will, and old Sir Pollard Pollard 

52 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


face, for whose sake Jenny gave him her heart, 
could not but be dear to this George Heaven, 
also. 

Every day chastened him with its joy. They 
lived a very simple life, he and Jenny. They 
rose betimes, like the birds, for whose goodness 
they both had so sincere a love. Bread and 
honey and little strawberries were their morn- 
ing fare, and in the evening they had seed cake 
and dewberry wine. Jenny herself made the 
wine and her husband drank it, in strict moder- 
ation, never more than two glasses. He 
thought it tasted far better than the Regent’s 
cherry brandy, or the Tokay at Brooks’s. Of 
these treasured topes he had, indeed, nearly for- 
gotten the taste. The wine made from wild 
berries by his little bride was august enough for 

found himself once more in the ancestral home he had 
forfeited. As for Lord George’s mansion in St. James’s 
Square, that was sold with all its appurtenances, and the 
money fetched by the sale, no bagatelle, was given to 
various good objects, according to my lord’s stated wishes. 
Well, many of us blessed his name — we had cursed it 
often enough. Peace to his ashes, in whatever urn they 
may be resting, on the billows of whatever ocean they 
float!” 


53 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


his palate. Sometimes, after they had dined 
thus, he would play the flute to her upon the 
moonlit lawn, or tell her of the great daisy- 
chain he was going to make for her on the mor- 
row, or sit silently by her side, listening to the 
nightingale, till bedtime. So admirably simple 
were their days. 

One morning, as he was helping Jenny to wa- 
ter the flowers, he said to her suddenly, “Sweet- 
heart, .we had forgotten!” 

“What was there we should forget?” asked 
Jenny, looking up from her task. 

“ ’Tis the mensiversary of our wedding,” her 
husband answered gravely. “We must not let 
it pass without some celebration.” 

“No, indeed,” she said, “we must not. What 
shall we do?” 

Between them they decided upon an unusual 
feast. They would go into the village and buy 
a bag of beautiful buns and eat them in the aft- 
ernoon. So soon, then, as all the flowers were 
watered, they set forth to Herbert’s shop, 
bought the buns and returned home in very 


54 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


high spirits, George bearing a paper bag that 
held no less than twelve of the wholesome deli- 
cacies. Under the plane tree on the lawn 
Jenny sat her down, and George stretched him- 
self at her feet. They were loth to enjoy their 
feast too soon. They dallied in childish antic- 
ipation. On the little rustic table Jenny built 
up the buns, one above the other, till they 
looked like a tall pagoda. When, very gin- 
gerly, she had crowned the structure with the 
twelfth bun, her husband looking on with ad- 
miration, she clapped her hands and danced 
about it. She laughed so loudly (for, though 
she was only sixteen years old, she had a great 
sense of humour), that the table shook, and 
alas! the pagoda tottered and fell to the lawn. 
Swift as a kitten, Jenny chased the buns, as 
they rolled, hither and thither, over the grass, 
catching them deftly with her hand. Then she 
came back, flushed and merry under her tum- 
bled hair, with her arm full of buns. She be- 
gan to put them back in the paper bag. 

“Dear husband,” she said, looking down to 


55 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 

him, jvhy do not you smile too at my folly? 
Your grave face rebukes me. Smile, or I shall 
think I vex you. Please smile a little.” 

B’lt the mask could not smile, of course. It 
made for a mirror of true love, and it was 
gi tve and Immobile. “I am very much amused, 
dear,” he said, “at the fall of the buns, but my 
1‘ps will not curve to a smile. Love of you has 
bound them In spell.” 

“But I can laugh, though I love you. I do 
not understand.” And she wondered. He 
took her hand In his and stroked it gently, 
wishing it were possible to smile. Some day, 
perhaps, she would tire of this monotonous 
gravity, this rigid sweetness. It was not 
strange that she should long for a little facile 
expression. They sat silently. 

“Jenny, what is It?” he whispered suddenly. 
For Jenny, with wide-open eyes, was gazing 
over his head, across the lawn. “Why do you 
look frightened?” 

“There is a strange woman smiling at me 
across the palings,” she said. “I do not know 
her.” 


56 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


Her husband’s heart sank. Somehow, he 
dared not turn his head to the intruder^ He 
dreaded who she might be. 

“She is nodding to me,” said Ji'nny. 
“I think she Is foreign, for she has an fHl 
face.” 

“Do not notice her,” he whispered. “Does 
she look evil?” u 

“Very evil and very dark. She has a pink 
parasol. Her teeth are like ivory.” 

“Do not notice her. Think! It Is the men-, 
siversary of our wedding, dear!” 

“I wish she would not smile at me. Her 
eyes are like bright blots of ink.” 

“Let us eat our beautiful buns !” 

“Oh, she is coming In!” George heard the 
latch of the gate jar. “Forbid her to come 
in!” whispered Jenny, “I am afraid!” He 
heard the jar of heels on the gravel path. Yet 
he dared not turn. Only he clasped Jenny’s 
hand more tightly, as he waited for the voice. 
It was La Gambogi’s. 

“Pray, pray, pardon me! I could not mis- 
take the back of so old a friend.” 

57 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


With the courage of despair, George turned 
and faced the woman. 

“Even,” she smiled, “though his face has 
changed marvellously.” 

“Madam,” he said, rising to his full height 
and stepping between her and his bride, “be- 
gone, I command you, from the garden. I do 
not see what good is to be served by the renewal 
of our acquaintance.” 

“Acquaintance!” murmured La Gambogi, 
with an arch of her beetle-brows. “Surely we 
were friends, rather, nor is my esteem for you 
so dead that I would crave estrangement.” 

“Madam,” rejoined Lord George, with a 
tremor in his voice, “you see me happy, living 
very peacefully with my bride — ” 

“To whom, I beseech you, old friend, pre- 
sent me.” 

“I would not,” he said hotly, “desecrate her 
sweet name by speaking it with so infamous a 
name as yours.” 

“Your choler hurts me, old friend,” said La 
Gambogi, sinking composedly upon the garden- 
seat and smoothing the silk of her skirts. 

58 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


“Jenny,” said George, “then do you retire, 
pending this lady’s departure, to the cottage.” 
But Jenny clung to his arm. “I were less 
frightened at your side,” she whispered. “Do 
not send me away!” 

“Suffer her pretty presence,” said La Gam- 
bogi. “indeed I am come this long way from 
the heart of the town, that I may see her, no 
less than you, George. My wish is only to be- 
friend her. Why should she not set you a 
mannerly example, giving me welcome ? Come 
and sit by me, little bride, for I have things to 
tell you. Though you reject my friendship, 
give me, at least, the slight courtesy of audi- 
ence. I will not detain you overlong, will be 
gone very soon. Are you expecting guests, 
George? On dir ait une masque champetreT^ 
She eyed the couple critically. “Your wife’s 
mask,” she said, “is even better than yours.” 

“What does she mean?” whispered Jenny. 
“Oh, send her away!” 

“Serpent,” was all George could say, “crawl 
from our Eden, ere you poison with your venom 
its fairest denizen.” 


59 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


La Gambogi rose. “Even my pride,” she 
cried passionately, “knows certain bounds. I 
have been forbearing, but even in my zeal for 
friendship I will not be called ‘serpent.’ I will 
indeed begone from this rude place. Yet, ere 
I go, there is a boon I will deign to beg. Show 
me, oh show- me but once again, the dear face I 
have so often caressed, the lips that were dear 
to me !” 

George started back. 

“What does she mean?” whispered Jenny. 

“In memory of our old friendship,” contin- 
ued La Gambogi, “grant me this piteous favour. 
Show me your own face but for one instant, 
and I vow I will never again remind you that I 
live. Intercede for me, little bride. Bid him 
unmask for me. You have more authority 
over him than 1. Doff his mask with your own 
uxorious fingers.” 

“What does she mean?” was the refrain of 
poor Jenny. 

“If,” said George, gazing sternly at his 
traitress, “you do not go now, of your own will, 


60 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


I must drive you, man though I am, violently 
from the garden.” 

“Doff your mask and I am gone.” 

George made a step of menace towards her. 

“False saint!” she shrieked, “then / will un- 
mask you.” 

Like a panther she sprang upon him and 
clawed at his waxen cheeks. Jenny fell back, 
mute with terror. Vainly did George try to 
free himself from the hideous assailant, who 
writhed round and round him, clawing, clawing 
at what Jenny fancied to be his face. With a 
wild cry, Jenny fell upon the furious creature 
and tried, with all her childish strength, to re- 
lease her dear one. The combatives swayed 
to and fro, a revulsive trinity. There was a 
loud pop, as though some great cork had been 
withdrawn, and La Gambogi recoiled. She 
had torn away the mask. It lay before her 
upon the lawn, upturned to the sky. 

George stood motionless. La Gambogi 
stared up into his face, and her dark flush died 
swiftly away. For there, staring back at her. 


61 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


was the man she had unmasked, but, lo ! his face 
was even as his mask had been. Line for line, 
feature for feature, it was the same. ’Twas a 
saint’s face. 

“Madam,” he said, in the calm voice of de- 
spair, “your cheek may well blanch, when you 
regard the ruin you have brought upon me. 
Nevertheless do I pardon you. The gods have 
avenged, through you, the imposture I wrought 
upon one who was dear to me. For that un- 
pardonable sin I am punished. As for my poor 
bride, whose love I stole by the means of that 
waxen semblance, of her I cannot ask pardon. 
Ah, Jenny, Jenny, do not look at me. Turn 
your eyes from the foul reality that I dissem- 
bled.” He shuddered and hid his face in his 
hands. “Do not look at me. I will go from 
the garden. Nor will I ever curse you with the 
odious spectacle of my face. Forget me, for- 
get me.” 

But, as he turned to go, Jenny laid her hands 
upon his wrists and besought him that he would 
look at her. “For indeed,” she said, “I am 
bewildered by your strange words. Why did 
62 


THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE 


you woo me under a mask? And why do you 
imagine I could love you less dearly, seeing 
your own face?” 

He looked into her eyes. On their violet 
surface he saw the tiny reflection of his own 
face. He was filled with joy and wonder. 

“Surely,” said Jenny, “your face is even 
dearer to me, even fairer, than the semblance 
that hid it and deceived me. I am not angry. 
’Twas well that you veiled from me the full 
glory of your face, for indeed I was not worthy 
to behold it too soon. But I am your wife now. 
Let me look always at your own face. Let the 
time of my probation be over. Kiss me with 
your own lips.” 

So he took her in his arms, as though she had 
been a little child, and kissed her with his own 
lips. She put her arms round his neck, and he 
was happier than he had ever been. They 
were alone in the garden now. Nor lay the 
mask any longer upon the lawn, for the sun had 
melted it. 


63 


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